


Blue

by fishpoets



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Dragon Age Quest: Perseverance, F/M, Gen, Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction, Pre-Relationship, negative thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-13 00:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9096760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: Some days the withdrawal is harder to deal with than others. It tends to make Cullen dwell on his own thoughts.
(Cullen, set during Perseverance)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Blau](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12039282) by [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/pseuds/bookscorpion)



> i wrote this ages ago and never posted it anywhere, but i still kinda like it so. up here it goes i guess

 

The Inquisitor smiles and slips quietly out of the office, leaving Cullen standing dumbly in the flickering candlelight. He's not sure he's able to move just yet. The frantic, explosive energy he was filled with a minute ago has disappeared without trace, and now he feels... numb. He can't quite wrap his mind around what just happened. Did he really confess what happened in Kinloch?

 

He's been sitting on those secrets for over ten years, quashing the memories, suppressing and ignoring and trying in vain not to let the weakness show in him, and now, to just blurt it all out like that... The relief is immense. Almost too much. The sudden lifting of weight has left him feeling hollow and dizzy. Sick to his stomach.

 

Perhaps it isn't relief at all. Perhaps it's dread.

 

He's finally told someone, yes, but – he told _the Inquisitor_. That's probably a good thing, he tries to rationalise, given his state; she ought to be aware of anything that could damage the Inquisition, and that includes his situation. But now she knows. She _knows_. She knows how damaged he is, has seen him ranting and raving – Maker, he almost hurt her – if he'd thrown the box a split-second later it would have smashed in her face--

 

His legs feel weak. He sinks to his knees.

 

Where did she leave to so quickly? _She probably went straight back to Cassandra_ , his thoughts supply; _they're probably discussing your replacement right now_ -

 

_No. Stop it_. He's dimly aware of his breathing getting quicker, shallower. _Breathe, Cullen_. He hangs his head and blows the air out slowly, willing the rush of his blood to calm, the fog behind his eyes to dissipate. Maker, this is pathetic; she's been gone barely a minute and he's already worked himself up again.

 

..But she doesn't think he's pathetic, does she. Not seemingly at least. She told him he could endure it, said it with such fierce conviction that... that it has to be what she truly believes, right?

 

_Just because she believes it doesn't make it true_ , that intrusive little voice chimes up at the back of his mind. He ignores it – it's just the lyrium talking, after all – and gets to his feet again, bracing himself shakily against the side of his desk.

 

His lyrium.

 

The box is still lying where he threw it, hinges broken and the phials inside shattered, liquid pooling blue and beautiful over the flagstones. It calls to him, singing like a siren; the sweetest song he's ever heard, a duet he longs to answer, aching in his flesh and his bones and all the parts of him that are echoing silence, flayed raw from the months without it, and he needs – he _needs–_

 

But he mustn't. He mustn't, because the Inquisitor believes he can endure this, and he... he doesn't want to disappoint her. Foolish, maybe, but he wants to make her proud.

 

And he doesn't want to need it, any more.

 

 

He isn't quite aware of how long he stands there, but eventually there's a noise outside. The Inquisitor comes back in the door she left through, pushing it open with her hip so as not to dislodge the tray she has balanced in her arms. There's a pot on the tray, and a sugar bowl, and two ceramic cups – if he's not mistaken, she's brought him-

 

"Tea." She walks over and puts the tray down on his desk, pushing some books across to make space for herself to perch. "Because I could use some, which means you probably could too." She wiggles further back on to the desk then lifts the lid off the teapot, gives the contents a swirl and breathes in the scent. Apparently satisfied, she pours one cup and hands it to him.

 

He takes it from her carefully. The tremors in his hands are barely noticeable, thankfully. He doesn't want to alarm her. Again.

 

"I bought this in Val Royeaux on Vivienne's recommendation," she goes on, "and – don't make a face, I know it's Orlesian, but it's actually very good. And I don't know if you're in any pain, but," she shifts and raises her hand to rub at the scar on her ear, "but I put some elfroot in, too. From the garden. And a bit of crystal grace because I find that calms me down when I'm stressed. So it – I thought it might, um. Might help."

 

She's still holding the teapot and looking at him oddly, as if there's something he should be doing and she's trying not to worry too obviously that he's not. Cullen realises he's just been sitting there silently watching her since she came in. He raises the cup to his mouth and takes a sip. It is good, strong and clear, though left a little bitter by the elfroot.

 

"'S good," he says, voice hoarse. He clears his throat. "Thank you."

 

She smiles and pours a cup for herself.

 

He takes another sip, considers, then reaches for the sugar bowl. _A little too bitter, perhaps_.

 

She snorts at him. "Ruined," she smirks, watching him stir three modest spoonfuls into his cup. Cullen wonders if they're going to sit and drink together – he'd like that – but then her smile falls and she sighs, sliding off the table. "Well, I have work I should be getting back to. As do you, so. I'll leave you in peace." She walks away a couple of steps, then stops, turning back to look at him.

 

"You'll be okay, won't you."

 

It's a statement, not a question. He breathes in deep. "I think the worst has passed for now, yes."

 

Her gaze skitters away, roving over the bookshelves behind him then across, falling on the lyrium equipment still on the floor. She frowns. "If you need to talk about anything else-"

 

His guts seize with a fresh rush of anxiety. He's spilled so much today; the thought of saying more... He can't do it. He can't. No.

 

"No." It comes out harsher than he intends and her gaze snaps sharply back to him. "I mean – thank you, but... I need a moment. Perhaps we could talk more another time.”

 

She eyes him shrewdly for a moment, then nods. "As you wish. But if you _do_ need to talk, about anything, come and find me. Or Cassandra. Or Dorian, or _anyone_ – don't just keep bottling it up, okay? It's not healthy." She shifts her weight and twists her long, slender fingers around her teacup.

 

"And no more talk of being replaced," she says. "Cassandra's right; it's not necessary, and I-" She pauses, turning away again to look at the mess on the floor.

 

"I don't think the Inquisition could cope without you," she says quietly.

 

Cullen doesn't know how to respond to that, so he stays silent. He feels like the Inquisitor's acting a little strange, subdued, though he couldn't put his finger on why – he's not great at reading people in that way, never has been. He'd almost think she was nervous if he didn't know better. Only... the air between the two of them feels different. There's a tension he isn't usually aware of, but it's not the tension from Haven, when they first were getting to know each other, toying the line between curiosity and mistrust.

 

She sniffs and scratches her nose, then nods at the lyrium.

 

"I'll send someone in to clean that up."

 

"You don't have to do that, I can-"

 

"Don't you dare touch it," she snaps, then sighs, her shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry. But please don't do it yourself."

 

He blinks. "..Alright."

 

"Good." She gives him a weak smile. "I'll see you later, Cullen. Enjoy your tea."

 

Right, the tea. He'd forgotten. It's still hot; she must have put an enchantment on it. It's funny, he thinks idly, taking another sip. Once, not all that long ago, even such an innocuous, innocent use of magic as this would have made him nervous and suspicious, but now here he is drinking it, and he's fine. Though that may be because it's the Inquisitor's magic, and he – he respects her. He trusts her. He considers her a friend.

 

He drags his chair over to the desk and sits down to drink. The elfroot seems to be doing its job; he hadn't been aware of it, too lost in his own head to notice, but there's the fresh injuries from Adamant and the older ones, from Kirkwall, from _before_ , that he notices now by their absence. He doesn't take elfroot potions often in the field. He prefers to save them for emergencies, for those who need them more than he does, and he'd forgotten how nice it is to have the pain put at a distance. It's even working on his withdrawal pains, those he's always excruciatingly aware of no matter how foggy his mind gets.

 

It's a bit like how it feels to take lyrium, actually, now that he thinks about it. The awareness of pain but being separate from it, not feeling the hurt.

 

The lyrium. He looks over at it. He really doesn't want anyone else to clean it up, to see the mess he made, but... the Inquisitor asked him not to touch it, so he won't. He understands why, though it does sting a little to think that maybe she doesn't trust him to control himself---

 

Understanding strikes like a knife through soft flesh.

 

Of course. Of course that's why she seemed strange, how could he not realise sooner? She _was_ nervous. He probably scared her, the way he was acting before. That must be what the tension was. He groans and sets his cup aside, burying his face in his hands.

 

It's a wonder she hadn't ordered him to start taking the lyrium again right then and there, now she knows how he is without it, how unstable, how unfit for command – but she didn't, did she.

 

_She asked you what_ you _wanted, remember?_ he tells himself. _That must be important. And she brought you tea_.

 

But she'd kept looking at the lyrium, as if being near it was going to make him... do something. Maybe it was the lyrium itself that frightened her. How familiar with it is she? Do Dalish mages even use lyrium? He doubts it, but in truth he has no idea.

 

_There's so much you don't know about her_. The thought snags and rips at him like briars. He knows so little of her people, or her history, or how she learned her magic; knows only that she's close to her Keeper and her brother and she misses them both. And perhaps there were moments, small and secret, where he thought about learning more of her – a tiny spark of an idea that, the way she looked at him, that maybe...

 

But that was before today. He's seen so much violence, so much bloodshed; he's been the perpetrator of it, and now she knows, and he's scared her.

 

He rubs his knuckles into his eyes then drags his palms down over his stubble, letting out a sigh. She obviously trusts him to do his job, at least that's something. The Inquisition couldn't function without him, isn't that what she said? Far from true, but a nice sentiment.

 

He sincerely doubts, however, that what she said at their chess match – that she thinks they should spend more time together – is still true. She brought him tea, yes, but she didn't want to stay to drink it with him. She was merely being kind. She does it with everyone, even those she doesn't get on with so easily. It's her routine to check on people. She was only doing her duty.

 

They can just be colleagues, then. He can consider her a friend, but it would be unprofessional to expect reciprocation, let alone to... to... He snorts at himself. What a ridiculous, fanciful notion. He shouldn't have ever let himself entertain it.

 

A distraction is what he needs. He grabs the pile of papers he'd allowed to build up over the course of the day and starts working. To his relief, he finds himself able to concentrate.

 

But there's a new, sharp little ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the lyrium and everything to do with him, and his hopes, and his stupid, foolish heart.

 


End file.
